Chapter 29
Carrion eaters scattered lazily as the humans moved cautiously among them. The birds, grown too fat to fly from their feasting, waddled noisily away from their food and eyed the men and women with a mixture of suspicion and anger. Teleziel walked carefully through the birds blanketing the battlefield. He had a scarf wrapped around his head and mouth, to help block the worst of the stench, but not all those who had come from the city to help clear away the carnage had been so thoughtful of their dress. Nearby a young girl doubled over and vomited her breakfast. Limping over to her, Teleziel held her by her shaking shoulders and steadied her until she was able to stand upright.
“Thank you, sir,” she mumbled as she wiped her hand over her mouth. “I did not expect it to be so…”
“Horrible, yes, I am sure.” Teleziel followed her gaze to the stiffening corpses littering the field. Already the Gondorians and Horse-lords had been removed and a large mound buried a king’s beloved horse. “Here, let me help you.” He took her shawl and wrapped it loosely around her head and shoulders to cover her mouth and nose. “Now,” he said when he finished, “breath through your mouth. Then the smell will not be so intense.”
She nodded her thanks and started off toward the wains moving through the field where she began gathering bits of broken armor and weaponry. Men, moving more briskly, began collecting the corpses and dumping them in wagons. They would take them further out, towards the river, where they would make a large bonfire of them.
Everyone in the Houses of Healing had tried to prevent Teleziel from going beyond the walls, claiming that he was not well enough for the strenuous work. He’d refused to listen and had even butted heads with the Head Healer. It was Faramir’s weary intervention that had forced the man to allow Teleziel his way. Only Faramir, bed ridden and forbidden to ride to the Black Gates with the rest of the army, understood the Haradrim’s need.
The bodies, ripened by too many days in the sun, were rigid and so bloated that it was difficult to distinguish orc from human, save for the clothing. The black and red of the Haradrim stood out among the gray and brown rags of the orcs. Teleziel limped along, ignoring the orcs, but paying special attention to the Haradrim. Like the others, he dragged corpses one at a time to the carts where others hoisted the stinking mess onto the wagon. The work was strenuous and it did not take Teleziel long to tire. Someone came along with a dipper of water and Teleziel gulped gratefully.
Moving farther out, he stumbled on a group of Haradrim who had obviously fought a pitched battle to the end. They were spread in a small ring, lying atop one another haphazardly with their weapons, most of them broken, scattered around them. Teleziel squatted down among them and stared at their faces, trying to find a familiar feature.
“Only god will recognize you now,” he said softly as he pulled away a bit of black cloth from the face of one of them.
Slowly, he pulled at each corpse, and realized that he’d never find what he was looking for. Giving up, he started dragging bodies towards the wagons. There was no way he’d ever locate any one he knew. He’d never know if his father survived or took his unit and fled before the Horse-lords and Aragorn’s demons arrived. He helped hoist the corpse onto the wagon and wondered if it actually mattered. Why did he even care?
He cared because they were family. The Haradrim were his people, even if they had cast him out, even if they’d abandoned him. Knowing would alleviate some of his suffering. But why did he suffer? Wasn’t it enough that he suffered at their hands, did he also have to suffer for their loss? He grew angrier as he moved from the wagon to the pile of bodies and back again. With each step he envisioned his father dead and rotting. And then he saw his mother’s large, dark eyes, filled with fear and grief. Who would take care of her and his sisters if his father and brothers did not come home? What would happen to all the women, dependant on the men, when there was no man to provide for them? They had never before had to fend for themselves and Teleziel wondered what would happen now, when their men did not return.
They would survive, he thought angrily. Just as the women of the Horse-lords would survive and so would the women of Gondor. Were his mother and sisters any better than the young girl who vomited her breakfast as she walked boldly out among the corpses to gather the bits of steel and metal?
Teleziel dumped a corpse in the wagon and then went to sit down in the shade of the shaggy pony pulling it. The beast snorted and shifted his wide feet and Teleziel tentatively stroked his leg. In the shade, he felt much cooler and he was so accustomed to the stink, he hardly noticed it at all, and so he removed his scarf, allowing the sun to warm his scalp. His hair was longer, now, although raggedly cut. He fluffed it with his fingers, feeling the sweat from his scalp slick his fingers. Perhaps the healers had been right, after all. He was too tired and his leg ached. He rubbed his hip and stared across the plain. So much remained uncertain. While Aragorn and Eomer marched with the combined armies to Mordor, it was not certain they were enough to defeat the black horde still hiding behind the thick walls. They were, according to Faramir, buying time for one called Frodo. None of it made sense to Teleziel. There was so much talk of portends and dreams and ancient riddles. It was almost as if the gods had preordained the war and the destruction. Teleziel’s head began to ache with the heaviness of his thoughts and he forced his mind to think of other things.
With a sigh, he got up from the ground and patted the placid pony on the shoulder. “I should finish what I stared,” he told the unconcerned horse.
*~*
Faramir tugged the cloak more firmly around his shoulders. He walked slowly towards the summit, where he could see the plain far below. The sun shone, but he still felt chilled to the bone. His pride rankled at being forced to stay behind, even though he recognized the wisdom of the decision. He now possessed a deeper appreciation for the way Teleziel fought with him over the attempts at being shunted aside during the early battles for Osgiliath. There was nothing worse, he realized, than watching and waiting and not being able to be a part of the outcome, especially now because this was the final chance for the men of the west.
Other wounded also remained behind, so he did not lack for company. Among them were people from Rohan and a Hobbit named Merry. Teleziel, too, had not been able to go, but unlike Faramir, did not protest. He’d seen enough of fighting and, Faramir thought, he had no reason to go since what he loved most was in Minas Tirith.
*~*
Teleziel wiped his forehead and glared at the heavy orc lying at his feet. The foul thing was bent at a terrible angle in the middle and it would take more than his flagging strength to move it. He glanced around, searching for someone who could help him when he saw something that made him completely forget about the orc.
“Imiro?” He moved forward slowly and then broke into a shuffling trot as he drew closer to the corpse. It was flat on its back, pinned to the earth with a heavy spear, with one hand still raised and wrapped around the shaft. A heavy gold bracelet studded with garnets and turquoise encircled the wrist and that was what Teleziel noticed.
He approached cautiously, as if afraid the corpse would suddenly leap up and chastise him. “Imiro?” He settled on his haunches and pulled away the black cloth covering the lower half of the face. “So this is your end. How odd it is, seeing you like this, even though I have been searching for you since this morning. I am alive and you are dead. Still had it gone your way, I would be dead and you, Imiro, would be sated with rape and plunder and living well until you were forced to return to Harad. Could you but see me, the foul thing, the abomination, alive and happy. Yes, Imiro, I am happy— happier than I ever could have been with you. I used to dream of you at night, with your long dark hair and your warrior’s body. In my dreams, I gave myself to you and you returned my love. Yet, when I tried to give you my love, you threw it back in my face and called me a coward. I am no coward, Imiro. I survived when you wished me dead. I fought against the orcs at Osgiliath and I survived the assault on Minas Tirith. Do you hear me? I survived! I am alive.”
In his excitement, Teleziel rose to his feet and his musical voice spewed forth in his native language and echoed to the others on the field. They stopped and stared at him, but he didn’t notice.
Standing with his hands on his hips, Teleziel panted loudly as he glared at the corpse at his feet. “I only wanted you to love me. I thought you were the most wonderful boy in the world. You are the coward, Imiro, you couldn’t face me like a man. You had to force yourself on me and take forcibly what I already offered freely. I gave you love and honor and you gave me shame and pain in return. Does that make you a warrior? A man?”
Someone tugged at his arm, but he shrugged it off. “I am a man, Imiro. A man. And I love another man and he loves me. He’s the warrior you could never be because he is compassionate and kind and loving. He loves me and he doesn’t think I’m a coward.”
“Sir?”
Teleziel spun around, startled by the quiet voice at his elbow. He gulped and looked around the field at those who’d stopped working to stare at him. “I’m sorry.”
“What?” The girl took a step back, as if frightened.
Remembering to speak in the western tongue, Teleziel repeated himself. “I am sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten every one.”
“Are you alright?” Her hand lifted tentatively, as though about to touch his sleeve and then she drew back.
Capturing her hand, he drew it to his lips and kissed the palm, Haradrim style. “Aye, I am quite well, really. Come, let me show you something.” With her hand still in his, he tugged her toward the corpse. “See that bracelet? I know something of pretty baubles and I can tell you it is valuable. Here, let me get it for you.”
“I couldn’t…” but her eyes were on the bracelet and the way the gems gleamed in the afternoon sun.
“But you should. I’m sure your family will be able to trade it for things that you need,” he said as he tugged the trinket from Imiro’s wrist and wiped it off on his tunic." I do not think he will miss it.”
Others came as he put the trinket on her arm and pulled the spear from the body. Someone touched Teleziel’s shoulder and suggested that he should return to the city. Teleziel agreed readily enough. He’d found what he wanted, more or less. He knew that his father had not survived and, while he ached for his younger sisters and brothers, he knew that the Haradrim had embarked on the adventure knowing the risks. More importantly, he realized that finding his father, or even Imiro, did not matter as much as he thought it would. They were just names and memories from a life that seemed less real to him than a dream. For a long time he’d been their prisoner and he’d never even realized it. It had taken him becoming a prisoner in a foreign land to make him understand that he’d only half lived his life.
Turning, he limped away, leaving others to drag Imiro’s
body to a cart for burning. He lifted his head and felt the warm sun on his
closed eyelids and he pulled away his scarf. As he drew closer to the walls,
he saw someone standing high on the battlements. Their cloak billowed in the
light breeze and Teleziel imagined he saw a flash of red-gold.
Raising his hand, he waved tentatively and the figure waved back. Laughing,
Teleziel broke into a run.
And when stories of the Battle for Middle-earth were recorded, the Chroniclers would write of a prisoner from Harad called Teleziel, beloved of Faramir, Steward of Gondor…
Go to the next part of the Series: Forbidden